


By the Trade Winds Blow

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Anders Being Anders, Cassandra is So Done, Chance Meetings, Death Threats, Everyone is pirates, First Meetings, Freedom, M/M, Minor Fenris/Isabela, Minor Violence, On the Run, Varric Tethras is a Good Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 05:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10960908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss





	1. Chapter 1

“If you won’t talk, you’ll hang.  You know the penalty for piracy,” she tells him coldly, and Varric’s stomach drops.  In spite of his terror, he smirks up at her.  

“Oh, I know.  It just seems to me that you’ll have heard the story before.”

 

Her grimace makes him laugh; without warning, she smacks him hard across the face, the force of the backhanded blow enough to send his head reeling to the side.  Varric tastes blood and rum, spits onto the floor of the hold.  The frigate, _Dawn Seeker,_ is two days out of the Kirkwall port, heading west over the Waking Sea to Val Royeaux.  Grimly, Varric feels with his tongue, checking what teeth remain to him and considering his options.  Finally, he sighs quietly.  “Alright.  I’ll talk.  But I’m not doing it for you, or for your bastard friends at the Trading Company.  I’m doing it because their story needs telling.  It deserves it.”

 

The woman snorts, looks down her nose regally at him.  “You were first mate on both their ships, once upon a time.  You’re in the best position to know the truth of it.  And that’s what I expect, Varric.”  She pauses, leans down, her breath sweet with mint, warm as it gusts over his face, “I’ll know if you’re lying.”

And he laughs at that, just a little, though his wrists ache from the rough hempen rope, and his head still rings with the force of her blow.  “You’d be the first then, _Cassandra_.”  He takes a deep breath, and asks, “Now, where do I begin?”

 

ooo

 

“Ten degrees astern, Mister Tethras!” he calls from the forecastle, “Coming into port!”

 

Anders sighs as he lowers the spyglass and the ship begins to swing around.  Kirkwall has always been dangerous - but now, with the new Governor, and the heightened attention from the All Thedan Trading Company, it had become downright deadly.  Already, he can see the brilliant white of the sails, the snap and flutter of the flags with the stamp of the Holy Sword upon them.  And as they come into port, he knows what will confront them - the corpses of hanged pirates.   He turns, striding from the forecastle down the stairs, bellowing orders at the crew.   _His_ crew - the crew of the Love’s Ruin, one of the fastest ships on the line from Antiva to Llomerryn; well, it would be, if her main mast wasn't broken.  All they can hope for is to limp into port, make repairs and return to the sea again.  

 

Yes, they are his, and he loves them, in his way.  But there’s nothing he loves quite so much as the smell of the salt sea, the wind blowing his hair back from his face, and not a scrap of land to be seen in any direction.  There’s a freedom that that kind of loneliness brings, and there’s something in it which sings to Anders.

 

Well.  He loves that, _and_ having a hold full of stolen cargo, ready to be sold.  

 

Just the thought of it brings a grin to his face.  Kirkwall may be a changed city, but nothing beats it for traders wishing to procure illicit goods.  Anders breathes deep, watching as the city draws closer, and waits.

 

ooo

 

“They were flying the yellow jack, sure,” Isabela scoffs, “But that’s the oldest trick in the book.  We could have taken them, you saw how heavy they sat in the water...”

“And that is why you are not captain,” Fenris tells her, folding his arms over his chest.  Isabela is mutiny made flesh and today he is not having it.  “If we had attacked them, and it _was_ a fever ship - would you be responsible for that?”

“Oh, who cares?  If it _was_ a fever ship, we’d be doing those poor bastards a favour.  Out in the middle of the Waking Sea like that, there’s no way, and you know it - that was a galleon bound for Val Royeaux, fat with loot, and you let it walk by right under our noses because you’re scared of…”

 

“Isabela.”  The word comes out hard, a warning, and Isabela stops talking.  “I will not have The Mercy Blade - _my ship_ \- be known as a rig of murderers.  And I will not have you question my judgement on this.”

“Then what _can_ I question your judgement on?” Isabela sneers, “The fact you don’t seem interested in chasing any booty worth taking any more?  The fact that we had a slave runner bang to rights, not a week hence, and instead of getting rid of the cargo into the drink, you put ashore and _set them free_?”  She makes a choking noise in the back of her throat and stares at him, a look of naked confusion on her face.  “Fenris,” she asks, and her voice changes with his name, becoming conciliatory, “I just… I don’t understand.  What is it?  What’s changed?”

 

“Nothing,” he tells her coldly.  The quiet that resumes after this statement is thick, tense as they stare at each other, there in the half-light of the little cabin.  Then suddenly, a cry breaks through the usual noises of the ship - “Land ho!  Land ho!  Cap’n, Kirkwall Town’s astarboard!”

 

Fenris pushes past Isabela, flinging open the door, his boots ringing loud on the deck, awash with seawater.  There, there gleaming in the sun, like a tarnished jewel, lies Kirkwall.  “Make for port,” he yells, and a sudden cheer erupts from his crew, who swarm suddenly into action - some into the rigging to prepare the sails, some along the railing to begin swinging the lead and preparing the anchor.

 

ooo

 

She whirls on him quickly, pointing her finger into his face.  “I know all that, Varric,” Cassandra sneers, and in spite of himself, he quails a little before he rallies and glares up at her.

“I know,” he says as casually as he can manage, “I’m settin’ the scene here, tryin’ to give you a figure into character arcs, what makes ‘em tick…”

“I will not be spun a _story_ , you lying sot,” Cassandra growls, “Get to the point, or I’ll see you in a hempen halter before we reach Val Royeaux.”

He swallows hard, takes a deep breath and nods.  “Alright.  Alright, everyone makes it to Kirkwall.  We get into port fine, just like we have a thousand times before - there’s always some official who will look the other way, even for ships that are known like the Blade and the Ruin.  And you’re right - things don’t get interesting until we get to the Hanged Man…”

 

ooo

 

“...and nowhere gets interesting like the Hanged Man,” Varric laughs.  Anders, however, only pats the bag of gold under his cloak and grimaces as he looks about.  More and more agents of the All Thedan Trading Company arrive at ports like these, and it’s enough to drive a captain to think that perhaps it might be time to change ships.  The Love’s Ruin is too well-known now - and while having a reputation isn’t always a bad thing… well, sometimes it _is._  It’s been years since he went on account; he’d served first with Captain Cousland, the legendary captain of the She-Wolf, raiding up and down the Fereldan coastline until the crew had split amicably, and he’d bargained a ship off an old hand.  He’d come limping into Llomeryn port, as Anders remembered, and it was love at first sight - him and the Love’s Ruin.  He still likes the ill-fated ring of the name, feels like there’s something in the poetic desolation of it.  Their boots ring loud even in the crowded Lowtown street - the stench of it is high, shit and swill, other people’s sweat, the bells of the whores and the shout of the traders intermingling into one great press of people.  Anders sees the sign for the Hanged Man and pushes his way through the crowd.

 

ooo

 

“The Ruin’s in port,” Isabela tells him, standing on the wharf with her hands on her hips.  Fenris follows her gaze, looking in the direction she points to observe a sleek, low-line sloop, men carrying cargo in barrels from her hold.  Fenris sniffs and shrugs; in spite of its reputation, the Love’s Ruin is, in his estimation, a piece of shit.  It carries virtually no guns, it’s too small to threaten larger Antivan galleons who make the best marks, and from all accounts, the captain is an utter madman.  Oh, he knows the stories - first mate to the famed She-Wolf herself, seven times escaped from the custody of the Trading Company.  But to Fenris, the Ruin seems exactly that - past it’s prime and in need of a firmer hand at the tiller.  “Come on,” he tells Isabela, “We have to talk.”  

 

And together, they stride down the quay, heading toward the noise and stench of Lowtown.  


	2. Chapter 2

Isabela shoulders a drunk off her and the man reels away, gurgling happily.  She shakes her head in disgust, looking to Fenris, who gestures further in, right to the bowels of the Hanged Man.  Kirkwall is still a pirate port; but these days, between the slavers, the press gangs of the Company on land and the Royal Orlesian Navy at sea, going on account isn’t what it used to be.  He sighs, watching a whore cover her mouth and titter.  She’s only a small woman, her dark hair cut short, her nails varnished a dark red.  In that instant, she looks up, looking directly at them and her face breaks into a gorgeous smile.  Fenris looks at Isabela, who smiles and waves, then turns to him.  “What?” she asks, “She’s a friend of mine.”

Fenris only shakes his head.  “I did not ask you here to meet your land-side friends.  We need to talk.”

“So you said,” Isabela tells him blithely, then grins up at the tired looking barmaid who has approached them, “Norah, my peach, what can I do to tempt you away from all this?”

The woman grimaces and sets down two tankards of watered ale in front of them.  They each hand her several coins, which she looks at, biting on one of them, then nods, turning to leave.  “Poor thing,” Isabela murmurs, then huffs, turning toward Fenris again.  “So?  Out with it.  I imagine it’s got something to do with not respecting your authority.”

 

Fenris nods.  “You understand this puts me in a delicate position.”

Isabela snorts at him, “If I wanted the Blade, I could have had it ten times over by now.  No.  The Siren’s my ship, and I shall have her back.  You know that.”

“I thought I did,” Fenris says quietly, and breathes in.  There is a shout from somewhere in the main room, the sound of a brawl about to begin no doubt, but Fenris pays it no mind.  There is always a brawl about to start here, and always someone who will finish it.  He stares at Isabela for a moment longer, then asks, “What would it take to help you get what you want?”

 

A twitch of her eyebrow, and Isabela’s mouth curls at the corner.  “Your take of our last haul.  Maps for the Brandel’s Reach coast, for Estwatch, port contacts for Treviso.  And…” Here the curl of her lip becomes a smirk, “A night in your cabin.  Take it or leave it.”

Fenris grimaces.  “I do not see how a night with me will further your cause.”

She laughs, “It won’t.  But a girl has a curiosity, and it wants sating.”  Isabela glances over her shoulder and scowls, “What in the Void is that?”

 

Fenris looks in the direction to which Isabela has cast her gaze.  “Explosions,” he says, rising quickly, his fists curling.  Isabela rises with him, outright grinning now, already putting her arms over her head to draw her daggers from their scabbards.  Fenris glances at her, annoyed, then snaps, “This is not our fight.”

“Spoilsport,” Isabela laughs as he pushes through the spectating crowd who holler and yell around them.  He hears her voice, but cannot make out what she is telling him over the din of the crowd, and then someone collides with him.

 

Fenris looks up, aghast, as a tall man stares down at him, amber eyes ablaze.  “What ho,” the man gasps, reaching out and gripping Fenris’ arm, “It’s the Company. I’ve given them something to think about, but as you value your life, if you’re on account, now is the time to turn tail.”

“I turn tail for no man,” Fenris growls, and the man smirks.  

“The Company is no man,” he says, and glances over his shoulder, “If you would do the dance on nothing, it’s none of my concern.  I…”

“Anders?” Isabela asks, then laughs loudly.  “First mate to the She-Wolf?”

“Not anymore,” he tells her, looking up and over Fenris’ shoulder briefly, frowning at Isabela, then a dwarf hurtles through the crowd, yelling as he passes, “Come _on_ , Cap’n!”

 

The man’s nostrils flare, and his eyes narrow.  “I am Captain of the Love’s Ruin, and if you will not flee for your own necks, then I will flee for mine.”  And without another word, he dashes away.

 

ooo

 

“Oh _bullshit_ ,” Cassandra sneers, shaking her head.  “As if they could have met that easily.”

“Stranger things than fate,” Varric mutters, and shifts against his bonds.  “A little water, prithee?  I’m parched.”

Cassandra narrows her eyes at him briefly, then crosses the hold to a large barrel.  He closes his eyes, listening to the screech of the turning spigot, the faint slosh of liquid.  The _clunk_ of Cassandra’s boots on the wood bring his eyes open again, and then a rough wooden cup is put under his nose, the rich, faint aroma of watered rum rising from it.  He opens his mouth gratefully, takes a few swallows before the cup is removed.  Cassandra stares down at him, eyes still narrowed, and he grins.  “Many thanks,” he tells her, and she shrugs.  Varric takes a deep breath, wondering briefly if anyone had gotten away safely.  He considers asking, then discounts it.  The longer he can spin this story, the longer they have to make themselves gone. So he smiles, and asks Cassandra, “Where was I?”

 

ooo

 

“How was I supposed to know Carver’d turn us over?” Varric howls at his back, and Anders’ lips thin in a grim smile.  He knows these streets, better than the Company ever could, that pack of bilge rats.  His whole body feels on fire with tension, his long coat flapping around his ankles, pushing aside the whores and the knaves who throng the Lowtown streets.  “Wait!” he hears Varric cry behind him, but he can’t.  He will not be taken again.  Something speaks up in the back of his mind, reminding him that Varric is a pirate too, and will face the same consequences as he if he’s caught.  Anders sneers, feels his steps slow and he grinds his teeth together.  “Come on!” he cries suddenly, needing to give voice to the panic mounting within him as he hears the shouts on the street and wonders if they are pursued already.  Then Varric is beside him, and they are making their way once more to the dock, the rigging of the Ruin already in view.  

 

“What about Hawke?” Varric yells, his shorter legs sprinting to keep up with Anders’ huge strides.

“Hawkes be damned - both of them were nothing but trouble,” Anders yells back, throwing his arm behind him in a gesture of frustration.  There had been a time when he’d been sweet on the elder of the two dark-haired brothers they’d picked up at West Hill port, but that time was done now.  Betrayal runs in families, thicker than blood, or so the old wives would have it.  Pirates all have their superstitions, and Anders is no exception.  “We can’t throw ‘em off lacking two hands!” Varric shouts desperately, and Anders grimaces.  

“We’ll be lacking our lives if we cannot,” he states, then looks around, up at the tall masted ship they are presently passing.  It’s a large ship, not quite a galleon, and the hull has been painted a deep, threatening black.  Anders frowns, slowing to a halt.  “That’s the Blade,” he says, then turns to Varric, who is a little ahead of him, bouncing from foot to foot, obviously eager to get away.  “You were their first mate once before you came to me.  What say you?  Would they shelter us?”

 

Varric looks thoughtful, then shrugs.  “Cap’n, I hate to be the bearer of a bad tide,” he says, pointing down the quay, “But you don’t have much choice.  We’re short two, one of the Ruin’s masts is good for nought but tinder, and she’ll not make it to Llomerryn.  Kirkwall’s always been a friend to me - I can find a way.  But we’re pursued, and you don’t have time.  So step lively now - I’ll find Fenris, and make introductions as best I can.  There’s a hidey hole in the starboard side of the forecastle.”  Varric glances to the left, then looks panicked.  “Go!  Maker speed you, Cap’n!”

 

ooo

 

Fenris sighs.  He had agreed to Isabela’s terms, on the proviso that she complete a final moons turn on the Blade.  The night is clear and cold, and he feels both lighter at heart and more irritated than ever.  Something is bothering him; and has been ever since the tall man, the captain of the Ruin, had bade him flee for his life.  

It had been overstated panic, of course.  The Company agents had quickly found themselves overwhelmed - the patrons of the Hanged Man had drawn blades against them and set the blighters back with their tails between their legs.  The ensuing brawl had spread out beyond the confines of the bar, onto the street; but this was Lowtown, and no Guard had bothered showing up.  

 

Isabela saunters beside him, looking smug.  She flicks a piece of eight up into the air, catches it and laughs.  “Oh, this will be sweet,” she tells him, and Fenris grimaces.  “My own ship, my one true love - I cannot wait to see her again.  I…”

There is a murmur to Fenris’ left, and a dwarf, hooded and swathed in a thick cloak, steps from the shadows.  Immediately, Fenris and Isabela put their hands to their weapons - and the dwarf raises both hands, empty, open, showing them he is unarmed.  “Ahoy, Captain,” he mutters, “a word?”  

Fenris scowls, looking suspiciously at Isabela, who shrugs.  He recognises the voice.  Cocking his head, he asks, “Varric?”

“The one and same,” the dwarf murmurs, pulling back the cowl of his cloak, just enough to show them his face in the moonlight.  “I don’t have long.  Belay a while?”

Fenris nods, and steps after Varric as he returns to the shadows, Isabela following close behind him.  “You always were friends to me, both of you,” the dwarf tells them, his voice low, “And so I have a proposition.  I have a letter of marque from the Marches, a sack of dry chewing leaf, a bottle of Antivan Sip-sip and two hundred gold.”

 

Isabela sucks in a short breath, and murmurs, “It must be a hell of a favour.”

Varric snorts.  “All of this is yours, if you would transport my Captain, tonight, away to safe harbour.  He is already aboard your ship.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Ridiculous,” Cassandra mutters, eyes narrowed at him.  Varric notes that she’s stopped pacing and is standing as still as the rocking motion of the ship allows her to, avidly staring at him.  “Well?” she demands, “Did Isabela find her ship?  Did Fenris put Anders off the Blade, or…” Cassandra seems to shake herself, seems to realise that her professional demeanour has slipped.  “Dwarf,” she tells him sternly, “If this is a lie…”

“I know, I know,” he tells her, “You’ll hang me.  I understood that much at least.”  He smirks, shrugs as much as his bonds will allow him, “Now, shall I continue?”

Cassandra nods curtly, and Varric smiles.

 

ooo

 

It’s stifling and grim and Maker, how it reeks of salt and rats and cowardice.  Anders grits his teeth, closes his eyes, imagining the moon shining on the water, the wind whipping in his face.  At least he has the feel of the boat underneath him, all around him, the lulling rock and creak of the rigging and the masts, the flat slap of the waves on the hull, the mutters of the few men still aboard.  After a few hours of sitting in the hidey hole Varric had told him about, Anders’ legs have gone to sleep - he has to sit with them tucked hard up against his belly to fit into the tiny space.   _ Don’t think on it _ , he tells himself,  _ Don’t think about how small it is, how dark, how much it stinks, no, no, no, the moon, the moon on the water, the wind _ … So preoccupied is he with keeping his mind away from the panic which threatens that he does not hear the footsteps coming closer until it is too late.

 

The double doors of the small space are pulled back, and a figure stands there, a lantern lit behind them.  Anders tumbles out of the space, his legs already protesting, and the figure seems to growl in a foreign tongue; nothing that Anders could recognise, all hissing sibilants and vicious consonants.  He lands on the deck, is unceremoniously hauled to his feet by the newcomer, and thrust, face and chest first, against the wood of the main mast.

“Do not think for a second I will not have you keelhauled,” the newcomer hisses in his ear, “I know why you are here - your first mate explained it, but so help me, if you put one toe out of line or risk any of my crew, I will personally give you a taste of the cat.”

“Which is it?” Anders gasps, “Keelhauling or a flogging?”  This must be Fenris, the one that Varric had told him about.  He’s strong - incredibly strong, but shorter than Anders.  He huffs out a nervous laugh, and asks, “Well?”

“What?” Fenris asks, sounding flummoxed.  The forearm he has against Anders’ back relaxes for a second, then is back with even more force than before.  “You are here at my bidding - do not push your luck.”

 

A final shove and the weight against his back is gone.  Anders turns quickly, mouth already opening with a belligerent comment which dies as soon as he takes in who it is.  “You’re Isabela’s captain,” he splutters, and Fenris shrugs.  

“Not anymore,” he says cryptically, then gestures with a rough flick of his head, “Downstairs.  Now.  Unless you’d like to sleep in the cubby.”

“No, no, thank you,” Anders tells him, and dutifully follows Fenris downstairs.  

 

The door to a cabin is pushed open, and Anders is roughly thrust inside.  “Avast,” Anders growls, “Shove me again, and I’ll…”

“Silence,” Fenris whispers and closes the door behind them.  The cabin is black as pitch now, the darkness total.  Suddenly, a flame is kindled, and Fenris lights a lantern.  Anders watches him, his lips pursed, wondering.  Finally, he can stand the suspense no longer, and asks, “What will you do with me?”

Fenris sighs.  “Your first mate approached us.  The Ruin is watched, he says.  He offered us quite a bounty to shelter you, to make for Llomerryn in the morning.  But my quartermaster has her eye on a ship of her own and tests my authority too sorely.  So she will collect you in the morning once she has procured her ship, and I will be free to pursue my own destiny once more.”  Fenris looks at him, must see the question in his expression, and Anders watches his lip curl, “Isabela.  She said you knew each other when you were crewing with the She-Wolf.”

 

He smiles and nods, Fenris’ comment about wanting to be rid of her making sense.  Isabela always was a captain - even when she was scrubbing decks, she was a captain.  It must rankle to have someone like that aboard.  He rubs one eye and looks around.  The cabin is neat, though strangely austere.  Anders frowns and gestures to the berth.  “Am I to stay in here with you?  Where am I to sleep?”

Fenris shrugs.  “You are welcome to the cubby, or to the open arms of the Company,” he says challengingly, then looks away, almost as if he is abashed.  Anders watches him until Fenris says gruffly, “Take the berth.  I do not sleep much.”

 

Anders’ frown deepens.  “You could put me down with the crew, you know.  Not that I’m ungrateful, it’s just…” He shrugs, “I don’t understand it.  You don’t know me.  Is this..?”

“It is complicated,” Fenris sighs and rubs one hand over his forehead.  He removes his hat and hangs it from a peg by the door.  “You are well known, and Varric made it quite clear that you must remain hidden.  Though his boon is not something I am interested in, the chance for Isabela to have her freedom is too great.  She is an excellent quartermaster, but she is a threat to my authority, and every day she is aboard the Blade brings the crew closer to mutiny.”  He exhales softly, and Anders smiles in recognition at the tiredness in that expression.  He approaches, hands out, meaning to commiserate, one captain to another.  Then Fenris looks at him crossly, and tells him, “The berth is yours.  I will be… outside.”

 

His hand is on the door, he turns quickly, ready to leave.  Something in Anders rises up, brings a single word into his mouth before Fenris can do more than that, a word sharp as any command: “Wait.”

Fenris pauses, bristling.  What is it?  There is something here, some… some cord which ties them, some natural affinity which… Anders cannot put a name to.  He struggles for a moment, then says, “I am sorry.  I did not want to be a burden, and I did not want my freedom to put others at risk.  I will leave.”

“You will hang if you do,”  Fenris says sharply, and Anders watches his nostrils flare slightly as he shakes his head.  “No.  I made compact with Varric to keep you safe tonight, and safe you shall stay.”  He looks at Anders, defiant, then his shoulders slump a little.  “If the brethren do not keep each other safe, nobody else will do it.  Those on account must take care of their own.”

 

ooo

 

He does not know what makes him do it.  He only knows that there is something, something which feels as if… as if there is suddenly more to this than there at first appeared.  As if his principles, everything he stands on, will be tested here.  Grimly, Fenris sets his mouth, then asks, “Why did you go on account?”

Anders smiles ruefully.  “Freedom,” he says simply.  “I was pressed into the Navy; going on account took my skills and set me to work for a Captain I liked, without the daily beatings I was getting for insolence and insubordination.  I could do as I pleased, leave when I wanted - and the life was rough, but it was…”

“Your own life, to live as you pleased,” Fenris smiles softly, and Anders looks surprised for a moment, then nods.  For a long moment, they stare at each other, then Fenris turns slightly and slides the bolt on the door home.  He turns back, looks once more into Anders’ eyes, and gestures at the berth.

 

ooo

 

Cassandra stares at him, open-mouthed.  “So?” she asks, “Did they share the berth?”

Varric shrugs.  “I don’t know,” he says simply, and bites his lip.  He tastes the blood in his mouth and grimaces, then narrows his eyes.  He knows his life is forfeit - he is no Anders, to fall into the Company’s hands and escape; no Fenris either, to fight his way to freedom.  “But I do know, that when Isabela and I returned at dawn, the Blade was gone.  I don’t know how they did it, but they got away.  Where to, I do not know.  And that is the truth.”

  
Cassandra blinks, and her face contorts with rage.  Varric smirks up at her as she clenches her fists, looking for all the world as if she will hit him again; then without another word, she turns, striding from the room.  The cabin door slams behind her, and he laughs.


End file.
